Page 44 of Sex, Lies, and Margarita Mixes

“I know,” I say. “I was gonna flip the couch.”

Miguel mutters, “As the dude on the couch, thanks for skipping that.”

She grins at me, “Next time, let’s go full WWE.”

“Deal.” I mutter.

She reaches over, grabs the front of my shirt, pulls me into her, and crashes her lips over mine. In front of everyone while standing on her toes.

She’s fierce. She’s wild.

She’s not his anymore. She never was.

She’s fucking mine.

ROXY

* * *

Sasha and Miguel are staring at each other when Chase and I stop kissing.

He says, “Good call on videoing him.”

She says, “Smart move calling security.”

He nods. “Yeah. You stood up to him. That was fucking hot.”

She grins, “Yeah?”

He mutters, “Yeah,” and she climbs into his lap. They start making out and everyone just kind of chuckles. Sasha drags him to their room.

The rest of us continue to hang out and I do the thing where I pretend I’m fine. I cut jokes and laugh with the group. I make another pitcher of margarita’s when it’s empty. But inside, I’m starting to unravel.

It’s not about Holden, the fuckface loser in a leather jacket in summer and thousand-dollar cologne.

Not really.

It’s about who I used to be when he had power over me. And how much I hated that girl.

I slip out after about an hour and stand barefoot on the deck.

Cool air. Dark sky. Heart pounding like it’s trying to remember its own rhythm.

Then, I hear him behind me.

Barefoot. Soft steps. Chase.

He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me against his chest, saying nothing. He just holds me and lets me breathe. He lets me crack. And when I turn and lean into him fully, my face against his chest, trembling, he just whispers, “You don’t ever have to explain how he hurt you. But if you want to—if you need to—I’ll hold it, carry some of it, with you. I know the bits you’ve shared, but I also know there’s more you haven’t.”

Fuck Chase. Now you’ve done it.

I don’t cry. I strip. Because grief over the power I gave him still lives in my body. Fear that I’m not enough still lives under my skin. And shame still lives in the places he never touched but still somehow controlled. The places I allowed him to control.

I want to give all of me to Chase now.

I pull off my shirt, dropping it to the deck, unsnap my shorts, letting them fall to join my shirt, and crawl onto the lounger without a word.

He follows.

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